Charles Spencer reviews Rowan Atkinson in the first night of Oliver! the
musical at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.

There is a strong case to be made against Lionel Bart's Oliver! It takes one of Dickens's greatest and most gripping novels, an indignant howl of protest against man's inhumanity to man, and turns it into a cracking night of tuneful entertainment.

With this latest revival, which has already broken box office records with the help of priceless free publicity from the BBC's I'd Do Anything talent show, those involved are once again insisting that this will be a dark Oliver!, a dramatic Oliver! an Oliver when you feel the dirt under the characters fingernails.

Bah, humbug! If that were the case would your face break into a huge grin of pleasure when in the opening number dozens and dozens of supposedly half-starved workhouse children take to the stage? No, you would feel pity and horror. But because they are superbly choreographed, look so sweet and are singing Bart's witty and splendidly catchy Food Glorious Food one experiences only pleasure. It's a travesty of Dickens. It's absolutely fantastic showbiz.

And once you have bought into Bart's shameless sentimentality, you remember that Dickens could be shamelessly sentimental too on occasion, and settle down to wallow in a superbly melodic musical that presses all the emotional buttons while seeming especially apt and uplifting in hard times. How we all long for a kindly Mr Brownlow to rescue us from the credit crunch just as he rescues Oliver from Fagin. Somehow our own real life Mr Brown doesn't quite fit the bill.

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This is a revival of 1994's London Palladium production, originally directed by Sam Mendes and now revived with assured panache by another young theatrical whiz-kid, Rupert Goold. It seems even more polished this time, even more vigorously and inventively choreographed by Matthew Bourne, even more spectacularly designed. Anthony Ward's beautiful, multi-level sets are both picturesque and brilliantly ingenious, whirling us round the handsome piazzas and dark alleys of London before taking us underground to Fagin's lair. And the play's thrilling, violent climax, with its chase scenes and suspense, is as exciting as anything on the London stage.

Rowan Atkinson is both sinister and hilarious as Fagin, which is just as it should be, sings pretty well, and brings some deliciously deft comic touches to the role. The people's favourite as Nancy, Jodie Prenger, brings a warmth to the stage you could warm your hands by, and wrings every last ounce of emotion from that deeply dodgy celebration of wife beaters, As Long as He Needs Me. Burn Gorman, with his baby face and psychotic rage, is a truly chilling Bill Sikes, while Julian Bleach contributes two brilliant, truly Dickensian grotesques as the undertaker, Sowerberry, and the doctor, Grimwig.

The kids are great too. At last night's opening Harry Stott was a sweet, sincere Oliver while Ross McCormack was almost scarily assured and charismatic as the Artful Dodger.

As most of us get poorer in coming months, this production is going to make producer Cameron Mackintosh even richer. It's so enjoyable however that I find it impossible to grudge him a penny.